


Pressure Points

by lellabeth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Barber AU, M/M, Pining, author has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:20:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lellabeth/pseuds/lellabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sometimes thought that maybe, if he was brave, he’d have asked Phil out by now. They’d go out to dinner and talk and laugh and maybe he’d even get to hold Phil in his arms like he’d been wanting to for months now. But he’d talked to Phil enough to know that Phil was educated, whip-smart and sarcastic but not ever enough to be mean. He was kind and beautiful and everything Clint was not, and on bad days he’d remember how the two of them looked together in the mirror, how different and ill-fitting they’d be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Points

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lea for the prompt that inspired this.

The bell above the door chimed as someone entered the shop. It was almost empty at this time of evening, as the last rays of the sunset faded and gave way to dusk.

“Take a seat, it won’t be too long,” Clint called, running the wax on his fingers through the hair of the client sitting before him.

“No rush,” said a soft, almost delicate voice, and Clint’s heart pulsed in his chest.

Because that voice meant sky-blue eyes and a gentle smile and broad shoulders covered by a tight-fitting dress shirt, and Clint had to swallow three times before he could ask his current client if everything looked good, hoping the man hadn’t felt his fingers tremble.

He let his eyes land on Phil’s reflection in the mirror, noting the slumped posture he wouldn’t have believed possible from Phil. He usually came from work, judging by the briefcase he carried and the tie always bound tightly around his collar despite the late hour. Tonight, though, the tie was loose and the shirt rumpled, the briefcase not anywhere to be seen. Clint didn’t know much about the man other than he came in once a month, was so far out of  Clint’s league that there were whole galaxies between them, and that he asked Clint questions like he actually cared about the answer.

He was unsettled by the differences all the same.

As Phil situated himself in the barber’s chair, Clint changed the sign on the door to closed. Bruce had gone home after the early-evening rush had subsided, and now it was just Phil and Clint in the shop with some Ella Fitzgerald playing quietly in the background.

“Same as usual?” Clint asked as he stood behind Phil, skimming the tips of his fingers across the smooth tips of Phil’s almost-wispy hair.

The other man’s eyes closed, soot-black lashes kissing his pale cheeks. “Please.”

Clint got to work trimming off the grown-out ends of Phil’s hair, what few there were. They reverted to the usual small talk, though with Phil it never felt routine or customary. It felt familiar, like putting on his purple hoodie when he got home at night; soothing, like he had someone to share things with. It wasn’t like he even saw Phil outside of these monthly appointments, but there was something about the man that calmed every frayed edge of Clint, and there were enough of them.

He sometimes thought that maybe, if he was brave, he’d have asked Phil out by now. They’d go out to dinner and talk and laugh and maybe he’d even get to hold Phil in his arms like he’d been wanting to for months now. But he’d talked to Phil enough to know that Phil was educated, whip-smart and sarcastic but not ever enough to be mean. He was kind and beautiful and everything Clint was not, and on bad days he’d remember how the two of them looked together in the mirror, how different and ill-fitting they’d be.

So he settled for this, some sort of almost-acquaintance where he tried to pretend he wasn’t halfway in love with Phil whenever he walked through the door. Usually it was just a case of trimming grown-out ends so Phil was never in the chair for too long, but tonight was different.

He had to keep asking Phil to lower his shoulders and try not to hunch, and by the fifth time he resorted to pushing his fingers firmly but carefully into the back of Phil’s neck, tilting his head down.

Phil’s groan was low and thready, cut-off after a couple of seconds and followed by the sound of Phil clearing his throat. “Sorry. Work’s been a bitch lately. Guess I’m carrying some of that tension with me.”

Clint knew it was probably more like the weight of the world, from the way Phil’s whole body was drawn up tight. He laid down his scissors and moved closer to Phil’s back, pressing his thumbs into the nape of Phil’s neck. He was careful not to use too much force, just enough that he’d hit the pressure points and get rid of some of that stress. When Phil all but melted under his touch, he repeated the motion up the length of Phil’s neck, fingers gentle but insistent as they felt the layers of anxiety and worry.

“You work too hard,” Clint said, and Phil caught his eye in the mirror. He looked… exhausted, Clint realized, violet under eye circles like bruises against his pale skin, lines around his mouth so deep it looked like they’d been etched there centuries ago.

“Is there such a thing?” Phil said, aiming at a joke, but something in his tone fell flat.

“There’s definitely such a thing.”

“Could I get that in writing to show my boss?”

Clint laugh came from deep in his chest, echoing around the empty shop. It made Phil twitch in his seat slightly before the corner of his mouth crept up.

Clint worked for long minutes on running his fingers through Phil’s hair, pressing down on certain points he knew tension gathered in. He scraped his nails gently across Phil’s scalp, something in his stomach shifting when he saw the man shudder slightly.

“It’s important to take care of yourself,” he told Phil quietly. It was clear from Phil’s reactions – hums every time Clint’s nails dragged across his skin, little noises in the back of his throat when Clint’s thumb brushed the edge of his hairline – that no one was taking care of Phil, not the way they should be.

He reminded Clint of himself as a teenager, when he’d been fighting through the foster system and so fucking touch-starved it felt like a physical ache. Phil leaned into his hands like his life depended on it. Clint wondered if their appointments were the only time Phil got touched at all, and something inside him was unbearably sad at the thought.

Just as he was about to speak, Phil’s phone chimed. He twisted in his seat to retrieve it from his trouser pocket, Clint’s hands falling from his head as he did so. He opened the text for long enough that Clint saw the name _Natasha_ across the screen and the words ‘ _you know I worry’._

Clint worked with his hands all day, knew every inch of his palms and how to flex them against a pair of scissors better than he knew any other part of his body, but not even that knowledge could stop them from curling into fists.

“Your wife?” Clint asked, thinking of his hands in Phil’s soft hair, feeling a slow crawl of something black up his throat.

God, fucking months of pining over this man – over some stupid, hopeless wish that Phil would magically fall in love with him because he was half-decent at cutting hair and took the time to ask about Phil’s day.

“Hm?” Phil looked up at him, a small smile on those lips, and what the fuck was wrong with Clint that he was _jealous_ of whoever could make Phil smile that way?

He was beginning to think maybe he should just ask Phil to leave, fake some sort of sickness – though judging by the roiling in his stomach, it wouldn’t be all that fake – but then Phil shook his head, his wide eyes meeting Clint’s in the mirror.

“Natasha’s not my wife,” Phil said, voice strangled with something that sounded like amusement.

“Oh.”

“Just a colleague— a friend.”

“Oh, okay,” Clint said around the lump in his throat, feeling like an idiot for being possessive over a man he never saw outside these four walls.

“I’m not married.”

“Me neither,” Clint offered, feeling like he should.

“I noticed,” Phil replied, and that brought Clint up short. “No ring.”

Something that felt a lot like traitorous hope sparked up low in Clint’s belly.

“You were looking for a ring?”

Phil visibly swallowed, his eyes searching Clint’s face in the mirror. Clint took a step closer, a small movement but a big gesture, one that felt like he’d just stitched his heart permanently onto his sleeve.

“I was looking,” Phil said quietly. And when Clint couldn’t hold back his smile any longer, he changed it to “I was hoping.”

Clint placed his hands back on Phil’s shoulders tentatively. “Me too.”

“I work a lot. I don’t get much free time and I’m never truly off-duty, and I probably won’t understand any references you make to recent movies or music, and I can’t promise I’ll be any good at dating. I’m not… I’m not much,” Phil told him, and Clint knew enough about shame and self-consciousness to recognize it in Phil’s words. “But with you, I think I could be.”

Clint cupped the back of Phil’s head in his palm, affection making him brave. “Me too,” he replied, and then he kissed the crown of Phil’s head, just once, just gentle. “Me too.”


End file.
